


𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐀 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐞.

by 𝕸𝖔𝖗𝖎 (Intra_Mori)



Category: HH/HB
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29373015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Intra_Mori/pseuds/%F0%9D%95%B8%F0%9D%96%94%F0%9D%96%97%F0%9D%96%8E
Summary: ___>: A largely ambivalent set of appropriately theatrical glimpses and glances into the life, afterlife, and times of one Vincent Ashton. ___
Kudos: 1





	1. Life

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING  
> implied pedophilia, implied period-appropriate homophobia if you squint hard enough,  
> and slightly-more-than-implied murder/self-mutilation and dark/occult themes,  
> including some fairly graphic body horror.

**1932.** For all intents and purposes, this is where our story begins. A small playhouse just beyond the bounds of the New York metropolis; not the most thriving business by the looks of it, but a young volunteer seems to breathe life into it all the same! A young boy, thirteen years of age with kindly features, rehearses proudly center-stage. Slicked, jet black hair with the first strands of silvery grey already starting to show, one eye to match and its twin a bright crisp arctic blue; he’s the youngest in the room, all the other cast and crewmembers are high school age at the least. Paradoxically out of place, and yet so at home. It’s not a job, simply something he enjoys being a part of.

Then the strange men show up. He hops down from the stage to greet them, brow arched. Performance interrupted by confusion, and intrigue, and then a quiet backroom. Adults discuss, muted exchanges back and forth. The child himself is despondent. He tries to speak, once. Only once. The man closest, not one of the ones who walked in before, but one who was always there, silences him quickly- and that’s the end of it. The farewells seem so terribly brief from our limited perspective, over and done with in less than half a second. One can only imagine if the boy, at the time, might have felt the same.

He doesn’t know why he was chosen, apart from his older peers. Still, he greets his new home with a hopeful smile as he steps out of the fancy car, greeted by an ocean breeze and all the glitter and gold of a practically newborn Hollywood. In a sense, they are the same age. _This is a dream come true_ , he’s been told, any aspiring actor worth their stuff would give most anything to be in his shoes (though, he's not entirely sure _when_ it was determined that he was an aspiring actor). So, he **must** be particularly special, he ultimately concludes. And this is very much a new revelation, yet… oddly familiar, for some reason he can’t quite place. One of the strange men, less strange now than they were before but still very strange, begins to lead him off towards one of the sets. They both look very excited, exchanging questions and answers, and… 

The passage of an unspecified amount of time leads to the boy hunched in front of a vanity in a dimly lit hotel room, tears streaming down pale cheeks, and a fist flies through the mirror. A shower of shattered glass segues into a new setting, the exterior of a grand mansion, and the boy [henceforth referred to as Vincent]. Smirking like the cat who caught the canary, tossing a large stone up and down in one hand, before promptly chucking it at a window. His rock is, oddly, suddenly knocked off track in midair by another rock, and his smile falters. Arms fold over puffed chest, shooting a short-lived glare at the culprit, anticipating a scolding. Turns out, it’s a girl! Around his age, in fact, short, copper red hair, and her fashions are most peculiar for the time, boyish even! She saunters closer, and the brief outrage quickly shifts to fluster as she stands close behind to commandeer his stance, plants another rock in his palm… and guides his arch to throw it higher, more forcefully- not only breaking the window, but knocking out a rather expensive looking painting on the opposite wall. The pair pivot to face each other, beaming with celebratory glee, quite literally bouncing in tandem; until their attentions shift -

Sliding into an alleyway they go, out of breath, the screech of sirens blaring past and eventually fading into the distance, nervous smiles shared between them. Then his gaze lifts to see a small, ragtag band of other ne'er-do-wells, all greeting the girl warmly. Except for one tall, comparatively reserved fellow in glasses, dirty blonde, sky blue eyes, just as fittingly out of place in this setting as our star was in his first; who simply observes the stranger in their midst with wary curiosity. As they all turn to go on their way, the girl ruffles Vincent’s hair, winks, and makes some sort of strange gesture he’s never seen before, thumbs and indexes shaped to mimic a gun. The blonde follows close behind, and as he watches them go, there’s a soft, earnest smile on the boy’s face. The smile of someone who might’ve found home.

Years pass. Glimpses shown of the three becoming particularly close, and a blossoming young love. They share tales by bonfire, stargaze, hijack the boats of rich chaperones for wave-bound joyrides. And on the other side of the coin, there is the matter of a skyrocketing career. _‘RISING CHILD STAR TAKES HOLLYWOOD BY STORM’._ The blonde friend stops by one of the sets to visit, adorned in a calm smile, bent to set bags to the side. In a parallel of where we began, Vincent’s demeanor conversely brightens now, as he hops down from a small stand proudly to greet him; posters charting tales of his success littering the walls behind as they chatter back and forth about anything but. 

We see the highs through his younger years- or at least, what seems to be painted as such. Fancy dinners, parties, preview showings. And life in the lap of luxury was nothing to scoff at during these times especially, but there’s something different about his smile when he’s with his colleagues and supervisors, as opposed to what was shown before. It just seems ever so marginally less... bright. 

And then we see the lows. Another quiet backroom, a news article slammed down on the desk between a familiarly angry man, and a familiarly despondent teen. _Someone_ got caught doing something they shouldn’t have, and it makes for bad publicity indeed, to be connected to all that mess… and so there’s an ultimatum. The view shifts once again: a stroll through the woods, hand combing through black n’ silverstruck hair nervously, a silenced frenzy ensues to explain why what has to be done _has to be done._ They’re both grown now, well, moreso than before at least, they should know better. She’s having none of it. She yells something, begins to storm off, he tenses…

And he’s suddenly standing outside the dorm of his only other friend, gaze vacant, latest fashions and face stained in stunning dirty red. The blonde answers the door, but before the older boy can take in what’s in front of him, he’s pulled into a swift hug, a face buried into his chest. Part of him knows what he saw, and he can feel it ever so slightly soaking through his own clothes, but for that brief moment of shock, he dares not to look. Eyes focused straight ahead widen in epiphany.

Vincent doesn’t attend the service, but he haunts it from a distance. His friend does. And their eyes meet as the rest begin to take their leave, ever fleetingly; neither certain which among them feels the most guilt. He’s not implicated. Of course he’s not, how could he be? He’s _Vincent Ashton_ , and his idiot savant of a best friend Christian Siegfried, the only other living person who knows the truth, three years ahead in his schoolings… has been pouring himself into his studies to become a lawyer. 

Together, they’re **_untouchable._ **One soon comes to believe that the work isn’t done, much to the other’s chagrin- but he’s already made a promise. Invested so much. They stick together, no matter what. They’re all each other really has now, and both have skeletons in the closet they’d rather be kept tight between them… some fouler-smelling than others.

Vincent’s adult life goes by much the same. Starring roles, champagne, opulence, the odd murder here and there. The first few are personal. The rest? Mere acts of charity. A hectic ambition to balance deep engrossment in the world of Hollywood, with a budding aspiration for a degree, to start his own business that isn’t destined to be. A stint as a technician for the warfront; a Link Celestial Navigation Trainer operator, to be precise. A heated argument between the two longtime partners in crime (over what is left uncertain). An eventual triumphant return to the silver screen. And a courtroom. One eye cracked, as the subtle beginning of a smug smile creeps up his face, watching a blinded jury proclaim his innocence. He shakes his friend’s hand as they emerge victorious, and the cycle perpetuates. Flashes of victim after victim, in chronological succession, until one is set apart from the rest. He’s much younger now, knelt beside something unrecognizable shrouded in a curtain of copper red. He’s smiling, terribly wide... the upper half of his face obscured, but a single tear streaks down pale cheek nonetheless, a shaky hand coated in lifeblood raised to lips as if to receive a blown kiss- then three fingers streak down the side of his mouth to his chin, before his hand drops limply to his lap.

Such sets the tone for a grueling contemplation, head resting in his hands as he watches the world through the windows of a luxurious estate; so similar in appearance from the outside to the one he sent a stone through so many years ago. He stares off into space for a long while, then abruptly rises from his seat as though startled, but his features soften quickly, almost too quickly. Mismatched orbs drift wearily around his home, and slowly he makes the trek to the front door, sparing a smile and a parting glance over his shoulder as he steps out into the sun, near blinding in comparison to the now unlit interior.

The next thing we see is that damned cheshire grin, caught literally red-handed for the first time and yet, self-assured as ever. Once again, a courtroom. His friend sits beside him, passionately arguing away, only to become shocked at something he says. The boy, now a man (if one could ever truly call him either), only shrugs and waves a hand dismissively. There’s a desperate look of protest in response, the other following him as he’s ushered out, practically _begging_ to reconsider and no longer caring in that moment about subtlety; but these pleas fall on deaf ears. He walks, head held high to the last breath, and is eventually made to settle in his cell and await the inevitable. The news embellishes, as they always tend to, his actions viciously misrepresented in his mind, but they get one thing right.

_‘FALLEN STAR CONFESSES TO GRISLY MURDERS;_

_REJECTS INSANITY PLEA!’_

  
  
The chair is all that awaits him now. And as he sits there in his temporary holding, pondering, it’s all he can do not to smile. Legs kicked up. Relaxed, serene, and as close to utterly free as he could ever dream of being, arguably for the first time in his life. That grey left eye gives off a bright, ghostly glow for only a moment before closing, and he drifts off to the perplexingly comforting symphony of his fellow inmates, screaming in agony as they are made to tear themselves apart in a vain attempt to **_make it stop_ **. They do not die, but as the night trails on into morning, most if not all of them wish in earnest that they would.


	2. Afterlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> / 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘹𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵… 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤, 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥.
> 
> 𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦… /  
> _____

“Stop, ST- _WOULD YOU knock it off?!_ ” Frantic, hushed warnings go unheeded as the other imp, one half of a two-man survey team of sorts, bounds from marker to marker; nearly toppling unstable pieces of rubble in the process. He comes to a halt atop one of the scantly scattered gravestones, teetering on one foot for a second, arms out for balance until they cross and he sneers down at his partner. “What, scared?~”

To call this plot of land on the outskirts of the Pentagram a cemetery would be vastly disrespectful and reductive... nonetheless, that is exactly the atmosphere it replicates in its earthen-carved commemorations and deliberate lack of maintenance. A perfect circle: five miles in any direction deemed unfit for development by even the fiercest and most territorial of demon lords, outlined by a pair of concentric rings of collapsed ground, varied in width and depth- somewhat like a reverse sinkhole. As the rumors would have it, the decline started mere decades ago. It’s now  **_1957_ ** , and no one can say with any distinct certainty when it became utterly unsalvageable; only that nothing grows, and all structures built within its bounds fall to ruin now in mere days, rather than over the course of several months. All structures, bizarrely enough... except those erected to honor the fallen. These, by some unknown mechanism, manage to remain intact- but only to a degree, and only if they are visited frequently. And so it has, over time, become a place where the more discerning denizens of Hell can come to pay respects if they have any, without concern for judging eyes or opportunistic landowners bulldozing their makeshift memorials. 

Sinners call it the Reaper’s Stain- which is about the same as calling it a cemetery. 

The slightly more sensible of the pair balls hands into fists at his sides, and hisses out a quick “You could at least _pretend_ to have an ounce of respect for the dead.” To which the other merely snorts, hops off his perch, and saunters on ahead. “A lot of the assholes around here are dead, doesn’t mean I respect ‘em.” Earning an unimpressed glare as they trudge onwards through the gloom, catlike eyes scanning the surroundings as a claw taps his chin in thought. “Besides, where do we even go from here? We’re at rock bottom.” He chuckles, unaware of the vicious smirk taking root on his partner’s face. “Dunno. Wanna find out?” Eyes manage to widen a slim margin before he’s tackled to the ground. They wrestle in the dirt like overgrown children, the sounds of laughter echoing out over wreckage, until a sharp yelp brings the fun to a halt. “Fuck, you nicked the shit outta me!” Wincing, a hand presses to his side to ebb the flow of ashen dust and a faint trickle of some iteration of blood, his friend looking down on him with furrowed brow as he gets off and rises to his feet.

Those few tiny drops start to soak into the dry, cracked earth beneath; there’s an imperceptibly deep, almost metallic thrum, muting the pair’s dialogue to mere background noise, which only gets more and more distant. “ _ Sorry, sorry, let’s just… get what we came for, and get the fuck outta here. This place gives me the creeps…”  _ They seep further and further, down, down, down- never quite surpassing the physical barrier of any other ring, but journeying deeper all the same. “ _ Y’think Paimon’ll wring our necks if we just ditch?”  _ They permeate sediment, clay, porous stone as if pulled along by magnetism, and eventually reach the upper edge of a cavern. An aquifer of some kind, confined and separated from the bed above by a pocket of air- which those drops finally fall through almost weightlessly to meet the waiting water below. Or, watery substance- it appears too viscous to be, but a bit more fluid than tar. Vaguely translucent, but black in color; akin to obsidian in a liquid form. _ “Probably. You know how he gets about stuff like this-”  _ At first, there’s no reaction, the foreign traces simply dissipate into the surrounding murk. Then… something far beneath the dark expanse begins to glow and shift, bright enough to grace its unsettled surface with an oily, iridescent shimmer.

Back on the surface, a rock tumbles across the dusty ground, shifting eyes denoting a growing unease. “I don’t get why we need to collect from the middle when we could-” Then comes a lowly-voiced interjection, _ “He’d know,  _ moron.” The first responds with a bitter side-eye, halting in his tracks and stooping to shovel some loose earth into an open palm, much to the other’s chagrin. “Look, see, there’s no fucking difference, let’s just  _ go _ , NOTHING is going to hap-”

**_C R A C K ._ **

In a brilliant flash like lightning,  _ something _ collides with the ground a few yards away from where they stand- forcing the pair to shrink back and shield their faces from the resulting cloud, one tipping back and landing on his ass in the process. Coughing, the imp gathers himself to his feet, bleary-eyed, fanning an arm in front of his face as he squints into the veil, his partner frozen stiff. An eerie sonata of sickening pops, electric crackles, and something indescribably  _ alien _ sounding over the shallow crater, as the solid black mass at its center unfurls into a more distinguishable shape, rising from the murk which spills readily over the sides. Claws unembed from the earth, whiplike tail stirring the dust at its heel, head cracking side to side as it reaches its full height. Betwixt bowed horns hovers a gently pulsing orb of the same impossibly dark shade, holding light captive within its circuit. Tarry fluid tinted with traces of chroma cascades sparsely but endlessly from the creature’s vaguely defined, ever-shifting form, and a glossy spectrum of vibrant reds and blues with no determinable source bleeds around its silhouette; tainting the surrounding air with distortion- which causes the imp to squeeze his eyes shut and tear his gaze away. “H-Hey pal, rough fall? Need a hand?” His partner suddenly stirs, harshly grabbing his arm and starting to tug him backwards with cautious movements and a slow shake of his head, summoning no words and seemingly transfixed. The beast then shifts, focus falling vaguely in their direction, but not upon them.

Escape is not meant to be. It outpaces them in light, deliberate step- the two parting like waves to get out of the way, relief flooding terrified visages for only a fraction of a moment as it passes without so much as a fleeting acknowledgement for either. Eyes like bright blue moonstones trapped in seas of shining scarlet, the only trace of color enclosed by its outline, narrow determinedly on some distant target- and in the meanwhile massive wings, which had stretched with a tentative flutter, decisively fold against its back. Like curtains, unveiling a petrified form on either side. Statues of what appears to be solid glass, which crumble and fall away into nothing as the demon moves on, viciously sharp claws locked ‘round the opposing wrist settling behind its back.

By the time it reaches a populated area, its figure is faint and flickering like a dying light bulb, head twitching with crackles of wanton electricity as if to shake away the agonizing sensation. Gait sluggish, almost a limp, but it holds itself high. Though no one even seems to notice it, its effect on the vicinity is both subtle in some aspects and blatantly apparent: signs fall without warning, street lights burst, pavement splits in miniscule cracks, unease hangs in the air like a fog. And as it glides past the window of an electronics shop, the displays gradually turn to static, as though passed over by a wave of interference. For the first time on its journey, it pauses in its tracks, and shifts its attention to one television set; gaze hollow as it watches its own faded reflection stare back at it from within the hissing snow. The primitive device spews a familiar language, which is echoed back in rejoinder, as the demon’s head tilts inquisitively, a clawed hand passing through the window to meet its surface. That white noise reaches a violent crescendo as the connection causes a blackout, though the TV itself stays functional, slightly more solid razor tips ghosting almost dotingly over the glass.

“ _ Who the fuck are  _ **_you_ ** _? _ ” Moonstones drift to the side, hand pulled back slowly, and the screen’s light finally dies like the rest. The beast stills, passively eyeing the stranger for a moment, but offers no response and instead merely vanishes in a tenebrous flash stained with glassy echoes of light in clashing hues.

Another jump forward, to the scene of a much more humanoid sinner, lounging in a recliner, fixated on some sort of hellish variant of football on the TV, bottle hovering idly at his lip. Brows furrow as something on the screen appears to unsettle him, slowly lowering the near-emptied liquor and letting it clatter to the side as he stands. As casual observers in this instance, all we see is static when he kneels in front of the set, but he stares at that crackling snow with eyes that are somehow both empty and utterly, unmistakably awestruck. “... Yeah I live alone.” His voice is empty too. “The stadium on the west side. No, Magistrate Shone owns it. We have… seven, actually. Yes, Lucifer is still in charge.” The dialogue stretches on for some time, apparently the static has many questions. Eventually, he appears to reach the last of them. “Janitorial.” A long, unbearable silence. Then, the demon rises to his feet steadily, pausing for a moment as though reluctant to tear his eyes away, but he ultimately turns and walks stiffly, unhurriedly to the back door. Our view lingers behind, apprehensive- as he opens it, steps out, and beseeches monotonously the heavy night air:

“ _ Yes, please. Let me see again. _ ”

Within a fraction of a second, something from above twists and wrenches his head from his body. What’s left of the lesser demon falls to the dirt, and a second thud echoes to the side in tandem, unseen. The body is dragged off out of view, and about a minute or so passes with the door teetering on its hinges in the wind as the only sign of movement. Eventually, he walks back inside, sans head and with a gaping hole in the chest, as if nothing happened- not even bothering to shut the door behind him as he calmly sits back down in his chair, and appears to resume watching the ‘sporting event’. He sits there, perfectly still, silent, for hours perhaps, just watching. Happy as a lark.

And then eventually, he starts to shiver, as though stricken with a terrible chill. “I don’t want to.” His disembodied voice drones, distant. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to.” Blackened flesh bubbles and sloughs off, eating through clothes and effectively cementing him to the chair. He doesn’t move anyway. “I don’t want to I don’t want to  _ I don’t want to I don’t want to I don’t want to I don’t want to- _ ” For the first time, he is allowed to scream. And that he does. A long, continuous wail spanning another several minutes, and culminating in an abrupt silence. It lasts about a half minute, then he tears himself free, and moves to walk outside again- only to pause. The light of the random pattern of noise at his back, until he pivots and ambles over to its source, placing a hand upon its surface and caressing it gently. Fingertips trail elegantly up the length of one of the antennas, sparks dancing, and he withdraws his hand as he notices he’s dripping on it.

A presumably short passage of time, and a new door is opened to the sight of the same demon, condition worsened only slightly; soft tissues falling away still in nasty globs, and the same television set- now slapped on in place of a head and haphazardly adhered by cancerous growths amassed at the connection. “Oh-” The homeowner peers around the doorframe and out to the yard, before offering the stranger a confused, but cordial smile. This new figure is a tall one, and very human in shape as well. The screen’s picture ripples, and a face appears; eyes lidded with one brow arched, but nothing’s said as the other looks him over, yellowed gaze lingering for a moment on the apparent maladies- then, stricken suddenly with realization, the taller utters a quiet “I’ve been expecting you.” He stands to the side, hands turned up in invitation, and his visitor enters with a matter-of-fact  _ “I should certainly hope so”,  _ as he turns to walk alongside. “And I suppose you’ll be seeking a more...  _ tolerant _ living arrangement?” Spoken in jovial lilt as they leisurely make their way inside, still sizing up his company, and with that, the door of the humble estate slams shut behind them.

\-----

_ “... You didn’t happen to come upon two imps in your travels?” _

_ “You ought to hope I didn’t.” _

_ \----- _


	3. Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> / 𝘖𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘶𝘹𝘶𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥... 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧, 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥... 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘮𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.
> 
> 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. /  
> _____

… **_Present Day._ **

Stolid footfalls against dry earth mimic a pattern of palpitations in his approach, but his step slows as he reaches the outer ring, and ultimately stops. A glance spared to each side, then… a step over the threshold and through the protective barrier. Formerly invisible, it glitters as the overlord crosses, bits of membranous matter lingering on his clothes until he flicks them aside, gaze panning about the desolate landscape before fixing on the lone house in the distance as a tiny smile, nothing short of bittersweet, begins to take shape. An obligatory, incredulous resignation, loosed to the heavy air on an exhale equally so: “Home, sweet home”, as he makes his way towards it.

There’s an awfully loud creak, one of the doors falls free of its hinges as he pushes through them, meeting the damp floor with a clatter. This place has been around not that much longer than a half century, despite its condition suggesting otherwise. Most familiar with its locale would consider the fact that it’s still standing in any state a miracle, though perhaps its tenants have been particularly neglectful of late. Time and energy focused elsewhere. Now, hands that can’t and won’t abandon its labyrinthine halls brush tender touches to fraying furnishings, stirring long dormant recollections of places similar but entirely else. Two voices, only the second recognizable.

_“- /Whatever/ it is, he’s suffering. Tremendously.”_

_“And there’s nothing that can be done…?”_

Several minutes spent descending steep, spiral staircase, until metallic thudding shifts to the solid click of soles against stone. A familiar cavern- much more spacious now, domelike, obsidian pool shimmering by blue-flamed torchlight. An echo of that same hopeless understanding from long ago glazes over technicolor hues when the third voice responds, 

“ _There is… something...”_

He carefully lowers himself from the cold lip and onto the surface of the colder, bizarrely dense fluid. Floating on his back, those eyes drift shut, and he allows himself to sink into the murk, that same voice speaking in sympathetic timbre,

_“... But it has to be you.”_

an acknowledgement of what was already intrinsically known, as a two-tone, glassy facsimile of the media overlord peels free of the now inverted pool and drops elegantly to his feet- a shallow splash of what might be actual water echoing through the impenetrable blackness upon landing. He straightens in one smooth, cautious motion, a wary glance cast about what little of his surroundings he's able to illuminate, antennas twitching in the apparent dead silence. Hesitation, then he marches on his way; clashing ethereal impressions shifting fluidly about, but for the most part eclipsing, each other. Straight forward he walks, and eventually he comes across a wall, seemingly composed of… what else? Black glass. Slim digits skim along its surface much the same as the furniture above, keen focus held on the edge of the gloaming, until wandering points eventually sink into an expansive crevice. His eyes shift to inspect it, watching the gathering of glowing particulates suspended in the surrounding aqueous nothingness rushing to its brink, to flood out into whatever lies beyond. Palm pressed reassuringly to the break, fresh crystal spreading over top and sealing it properly as he moves on, deep-rooted intuition serving as his only guide.

“You’re not gonna make it back, you know.” Chimes the feminine tone of a more solid shape in his periphery, leaning against the wall he had just parted from, arms folded. He doesn’t care to look beyond a fleeting glimpse of copper red, but as his determined step slows, he can _feel_ the derisive smile. “That key around your neck won’t fix what’s up here…” A hand raised presumably to tap a temple, “... And in here.” then back to her chest. The silence returns, then he presses on his way, more laggard than before, offering only a defiant shake of his head in place of conversation. “You’re not real.” In response, the figure pushes off the wall, and is at his back in a blink, causing him to freeze- hands on hunched shoulders, she leans up to whisper against his neck in a twisted mockery of kittenish playfulness. “ _I wonder whose fault that is…?~”_

Down. Down. Deeper down. It’s frigid, dark, isolating, the pressure is unbearable- manifested on two fronts, sensations like bits of fiberglass digging in and squirming of their own volition from the outside, and a constant full body scrubbing by steel wool from within. The lapping at his heel doesn't burn. On the contrary, it's very, very cold; and the numbness offered by its touch provides no comfort. Time spins out into pockets of eternities; turning seconds into hours and days into months. Down, down, the very sense of up and down and direction itself warped beyond recognition- the smooth flooring and the quiet swashing at his feet the only thing keeping him, quite literally, grounded.

An antenna twitches, but he seems dismissive, gaze downcast as he trudges on- then one calm, anticipatory step back pulls him just barely out of reach of another similarly transparent form much larger than himself. Having emerged out of nowhere from the darkness, it begins to glow as well, seeming to soak up his own emissions like a fluorescent stone, making it more visible. The monstrous shape snarls and snaps at him desperately betwixt ghostly, agonized howls, held back by a taut chain of the same material as the walls and floor. Globules of the glowing, gossamer substance their forms are composed of ooze freely from it, and bubble languidly up into the black. The creature appears impossibly sickly, like it could crumble at a touch, but this doesn’t hinder its relentless struggle against its restraints in the slightest; nebulous form reshaping and splitting off additional parts all clambering over each other to get at its target.

“Worm?” A brow arches, lips pulled into a fond, only mildly sardonic smile as his gaze flits down, then back up. “Is that you?” A hand extends upward in an offering of some meager comfort, holding its attention in a fix as the other lowers to carefully brush over the binding around its neck to check for imperfections, “You, my friend...” both hands draw back in the nick of time as it becomes wise to the ploy, dropping limply to his sides as he heaves a sigh. “... have seen better days.” His tone at last sounds as fatigued as he feels, his eyes pass over the entity before him once more, before shifting to the side… and continuing on his way.

_“... It’s done.”_

Again, recollection of a confirmation of the obvious, flatly intoned, his body innately mirrors the crestfallen glance between expectant eyes that aren’t there, the unsteady sway as he steps down the small staircase to move through parting phantom crowd- nearly tripping over himself in the process, as there _is_ no actual staircase here, the obligatory correction of his balance dragging him back to the present as those pained wails echoing distantly behind him drown out coherent thought. Red shifts and stretches further away from blue, blurring as his vision starts to drown him- chaotic, superimposed visions slapped together piecemeal, indistinguishable from reality, and as he begins to falter, and wander off track, he steels himself with a firm, low warning. “Keep it together.” So he does, dual impressions falling back in line with each other, and on… onward he goes through the dark, for what seems like another forever and a half.

\-----

_Frozen. Then, a step forward, apprehensive. He doesn’t know if what he’s looking at is real. He has no way of knowing. But the arms thrown hastily around him feel real. That familiar voice sounds real, beholding the scene before him and finding himself unable to summon any words. This, a much more recent memory. “Dad! You’re back!” That simple gleeful, agonizingly innocent phrase echoes so distant, arms slowly wrapping around the smaller in return, unable to drain the shock from wide-blown eyes. “I’m the last one standing, just like in the story! Aren’t you proud? Can I come home now?” His gaze is vacant._

_“Dad?”_ An echo in the backdrop of a blow against solid glass.

_“Dad?”_ And again, louder.

_“Dad?”_ Once more, the same.

\-----

The overlord, presently slumped against the wall underneath telltale webs of fracture, knuckles shedding tiny globs of light, raises one hand halfheartedly to brush thumb and forefinger against where the bridge of his nose would be. Eyes softly shut, an almost peaceful smile on his face. That arm flops back to his lap and he cracks an eye, peering into the confining gloom with a weak semblance of a chuckle. A moment of silence passes, before he utters a solemn reminder to himself. “... Get. Up.” And so he does.

_“He was more of a brother to me than any of you ever bothered to be, you know.”_

He leaves the wall. Drawn deeper into the dark against better judgement, his own voice resounding in his head.

_“When all others stood against or aback from me, h- … he was the only one at my side. Always. Without fail.”_

He marches on, visibly unmoved, despite the growing fog in the corners of his vision, despite the mild hysterics echoing about in his head. None of it matters. Only his goal matters. He tries to quiet his mind, or fixate on something else, to no avail. The quiet is too deafening.

_“... And now his blood is on my hands.”_

_A strained chuckle, then the reminiscence sobers abruptly. A shift in tone, and perhaps time._

  
  


_“You’re not… afraid… of me. Are you?”_

_“... No. Of course not.”_

_“Hmm.”_

_A pleasant hum amidst the tranquility._

_“You’re lying to me. Just like the rest.”_

_Soft tones ring with a palpable dispassion, and faint, growing bitterness._

_“You think I don’t know? That fear…”_

His mind swells with a cacophony of anguish, composite shades stretched far behind him, lingering impressions of his path as his steps fall out of form once again, drifting to the side briefly like a useless log swept up in a vast current, hands raised to smooth over antennae. 

_“... is pervasive.”_

So many screams. So many different shapes, faceless, formless, figureless- expanding, contracting. Falling apart and slipping back together like puzzle pieces, all watching him. All unique, all identical, indistinguishable from each other. Waiting. They aren’t there. His vision fades in and out, or it might be his own light- flickering. Fading. The circle of visibility shrinks. The walls close in. He’s being pulled apart too.

_“Like a cloud.”_

They aren’t there. And he only has himself to blame.

_“... And I wish there was something I could do to change that.”_

  
  


He eventually steadies himself with a deep, almost gasping breath for air that’s neither needed nor present, hands planted on his knees as his head hangs weakly, not knowing how much time has been lost. As he collects himself and carries on with newfound haste, he notices something ahead that causes him to stall again. Weight shifting indecisively, he cautiously makes his way over, and crouches to investigate. Part of a glass chain, worn and shattered, taken up in his hands as brows furrow. An ominous sight, which can only mean-

Shrill, layered hisses spilled at the edge of his view draw his attention up and slowly to one side, steadily rising to his feet as its source drags itself closer. He remains hushed at first, movements carefully measured, lidded optics shifting instinctively to the opposite side as he becomes keenly aware of the others gathering, and it’s not long at all before he’s surrounded. Emitting a resigned sigh, he carelessly lifts a hand to rub dulled digits against the upper half of his screen, eyes briefly squeezed shut, “Guys, I don’t _actually_ mind you being all free range and shit…” it flourishes dismissively, and drops to his hip, taking stock of the ones in his immediate line of sight closing in. “But right now, you’re kinda in the way.” As expected, no response. Fangs sink into his lower lip and his head droops in a curt iteration of a nod, twitch of an antenna noting the one directly behind him, nearly within striking range as hazy eyes follow the rest. “... Yeah, figures.”

Talons flex with a silvery sheen, then suddenly close around the similarly transparent shaft of a conjured halberd as he twists… and drives the spike up through the readied maw of the closest adversary with a blinding, thunderous crack- hooking its head and yanking it to the floor just as quick, to plant his foot between its eyes and wrench the weapon back through the long way. Beads of light blossom upwards from the gaping wound, colorful shimmers dancing along platinum luster in place of blood, and the rest all seem to lunge at once. He cuts them down readily, each mindless strike nimbly evaded and retaliated with twice the ferocity. The heavy polearm is the opposite of cumbersome in experienced hands, aiding his mobility with as much unnatural speed and grace as all those tiresome practice sessions, set to a much more frantic tempo, with less room for error. Only the last of them manages to exploit an opening, mid-vault. The halberd clatters, he falls, rolls. The numbness grips on like a vice, draining the will to regain his footing, but he doesn't have time to waste. He doesn't succumb. Drooling maw gnashes as he grapples with the creature, nearly losing balance again- instead managing to briefly overpower it and flip it on its side, before turning its head up, digging silver-tinged points between equally sharp teeth, and straining to pull its jaw apart. A sickening snap of bone, reality tainted by recollection once more perhaps, stumbling back as it falls limp.

_“That's /enough./”_

In the backdrop, a lone straggler hauls to its feet and attempts a charge- only to be impaled from beneath, limbs scrabbling helplessly and scoring smooth flooring as those spires slowly bend inwards and hook it back down into a prone position, one hand clenched into a fist at the overlord’s side as he leisurely fetches his weapon. 

_“- Stop! We've already won, it's /over/!”_

Blade drags behind as he glides alongside the struggling creature, taking his sweet time before abruptly pinning its snout underfoot, shifting grip and stance, and raising the otherworldly armament overhead. 

_“It isn't over…”_

A moment’s pause, sharp glare softening ever so slightly as it falls to his reflection in the creature’s glossy surface.

**_“... until I say it's over.”_ **

The blade is brought down like lightning, severing phantom head in one fell swoop. Staggering from exhaustion as he steps back and props some of his weight on the shaft, weary eyes sweep over the carnage. Ragged breaths accentuate an uneasy silence, and in that moment, those glowing shapes and their rapidly disintegrating extraneous pieces are no longer monstrous at all. His weapon soon shatters and dissolves as well, and he raises an arm to wipe nonexistent sweat from his brow, a few graceless steps backwards as he uses the shallow splashing beneath to once again ground himself. One by one, they’re dragged back to their places, chains repaired, their warden long gone before they wake.


End file.
